


This Side of Hell

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Non Consensual, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of "The Great Game," Moriarty forces Sherlock to rape John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Side of Hell

John watches Sherlock’s expression slowly shift from defiant to defeated, and then hover somewhere in between. He latches on to that expression, files it away in his own ‘do not delete’ section of his brain, because it just might be the only thing that will get him through this.

Sherlock’s mouth is set in a firm line as he slowly kneels and slides the gun to Moriarty. Moriarty’s own grin is sickening as he slides a tube of commercial lubricant over to Sherlock, and John’s stomach clenches at the thought that Moriarty had this particular part of the meeting planned, somewhere in that twisted mind of his.

“Take off every stitch, now. And do be generous with the lubricant; we surely want Johnny-boy to be as comfortable as possible.” Moriarty’s voice hovers between bored and gleeful as Sherlock grimly pulls John’s cardigan away and begins to unbutton John’s shirt. His hands are shaking slightly, barely perceptible to even John, as he pulls off jeans, pants, shoes, and socks. As directed, he then undoes his own zip and pushes aside his pants, only enough to remove his still-flaccid cock.

John’s breath suddenly hitches at the thought that Sherlock might not be able to do it, and his mind races, wondering what Moriarty would do.

As if Moriarty can read his mind, he trills out, in that same bored yet gleeful voice “You can always use this, if you’re having performance anxiety.” John can see, from the corner of his eye, the gun that Sherlock had turned over.

The grim set of Sherlock’s mouth turns resolute, he takes himself in hand, and strokes until he’s hard. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he takes the lubricant and squeezes a generous amount into his right hand.

John spreads his legs and realizes his mouth is dry as he tries to swallow. His mind can’t leave the natatorium to think on anything neutral, and it torments him with the wondering of what it means that he’s fantasized about what Sherlock is doing now, using those long, nimble fingers to stretch him open. It had always been a careless fantasy which John had dismissed, because who wouldn’t call up his handsome flat-mate from the mind’s cast list during a good wank once in a while? But John would not, could not have imagined this scenario in a thousand years.

Sherlock is easing his way into John, teeth gritted, and John desperately tries to read his face. He’s assumed Sherlock’s asexuality, though he doesn’t know for a fact that Sherlock identifies as such, and he cannot read if the pained look is due to being forced to go against his very nature or if it’s that Sherlock is being forced into the position of rapist or if Sherlock is mostly just worried about John, worried about hurting him physically or what he’s going through.

Finally, the rational part of John’s mind screams at him that the whys don’t matter. The bottom line is that things are decidedly not fine right now, but the focus needs to be on getting out of here alive. There is no time, in this moment, to focus on the inevitable fallout.

Emotion takes over reason and John slings a shaking arm across his eyes. The humiliation of Moriarty’s eyes on them threatens to make him hyperventilate, and he feels tears stinging in his eyes. Reason fights back and John tries to calm himself. If they were back at 221B, this would just be two people getting off, a casual fuck.

It’s a weak attempt at trying to bring a sense of normalcy to chaos, and he dismisses it, because he’s a soldier; he deals with reality. John suspects, not unreasonably, that this is many times worse for Sherlock than it is for himself. He focuses on that thought enough to bring his own emotions under control before removing his arm from his eyes and forcing himself to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s gaze is trained on John’s abdomen, his expression nearly impassive as he continues to thrust. John bites down on his lip, wishing that he could read his friend, communicate some kind of reassurance. It occurs to him that he’s not worried much for himself, but a tight knot of rage coils itself somewhere within him over what Moriarty is doing to Sherlock.

“Well boys, this was fun, but I really must be going.” John’s peripheral vision catches a glimpse of Moriarty’s arm rising, and he doesn’t have time to react as Moriarty points the gun at the semtex-covered vest and fires.

A tangle of limbs and the sound of his heart pounding, as Sherlock tackles him, shielding him with his own lithe frame. John waits, not quite sure what to expect, except perhaps for an all too familiar explosion of searing pain.

Nothing. The bomb was a ruse. Seconds tick by at a seemingly glacial pace. Sherlock is gone; John can hear his steps retreating, running after Moriarty. Somehow he knows, he’s sure, that Sherlock won’t catch up with him. He finds his clothes and pulls them on, his leg threatening to give way beneath him. Almost absentmindedly, he pockets the bottle of lubricant, wondering if he should throw it into the pool instead.

Finally, Sherlock returns, his form taut, his eyes flashing. He paces, and asks the question for a second time tonight. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Sherlock…”

Sherlock wheels around. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Sherlock,” and John uses the tone of voice he perfected in Afghanistan, dealing with terrified soldiers. “I will be fine. Are you alright?” It sounds like a stupid question to John, like the most idiotic question he could possibly ask, but he can’t read Sherlock, and it infuriates him. There are certain emotions that he’ll be able to deal with from Sherlock (and he hopes that Sherlock will give him something to deal with, something for his mind to focus on, some way in which he can help, for God’s sake): rage, definitely, disgust, yes. But John doesn’t know if he can handle Sherlock feeling guilt.

Sherlock suddenly leans against the wall, allowing himself to slide down to the floor, his head in his hands, but he says nothing. When he looks up, his features are carefully schooled, completely impassive, and something runs cold in John and he wants to scream don’t shut me out now, but he can’t find his voice.


End file.
